


Flirtation, Teasing, and Plots

by StarlightAndFireflies



Series: How Novel [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Backstory, Dating, Flirting, Getting to Know Each Other, Insecure Sherlock, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Mystery Stories, Romance, Shy Sherlock, Unilock, Writer John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-23 18:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16164305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: "You’ve got to eat sometimes, you know.”Instead of replying with words, Sherlock slowly and deliberately lifts a full spoonful to his mouth, not taking his eyes off John. A second later, however, he starts coughing into a napkin.“Hot,” he manages, choking slightly. After he recovers, he looks back up. "But see, eating isdangerous, John.”Sherlock and John go on a couple dates, neither of which are the most romantic. But somehow, they still manage to have a good time.





	Flirtation, Teasing, and Plots

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still dealing with some stubborn writer's block for the next installment of Experiments in Alternates, but that's almost a blessing in disguise because it means I get to write more in this universe (*maniacal laugh*) even if this installment is a little meandering and doesn't have nearly as much kissing as the last one...
> 
> Also, I don't have a beta, and I'm not from the UK, so if there are errors it's all on me.

John spots Sherlock the moment he appears in the window outside the cafe, and his heart leaps in his chest. Like a lovestruck fool, really, he reflects as he shakes his head at himself. The chemistry student is still carrying that old bag, despite the long ragged tear in the side. To compensate, Sherlock is clutching a textbook and two notebooks in his arms, his other hand holding the split bag shut.

He steps inside the cafe a little awkwardly, having to open and then maneuver through the door while keeping all his possessions in his grasp. John rises and waves, enjoying the chance to get a good look at his date.

Sherlock is wearing a dark shirt today, the color of red wine. The shade contrasts dramatically with his alabaster skin and startling jade-and-cerulean eyes. His hair is messy from the wind outside, though he seems to realize this, as he reaches up to brush his fingers hastily through the curls.

 _God, what am I doing with him?_ John thinks, tugging at the hem of his green jumper and brushing at his old jeans. _He looks like Adonis strolled in from a fashion shoot in Pemberley or something_.

“Hi,” Sherlock says as he reaches the table, then hesitates, as if unsure if he is allowed to move forward for a kiss, especially in this public setting. John does not allow himself to equivocate, though, and pops up on his toes to peck Sherlock’s shapely lips.

“Hey,” he replies with a grin. “Come on, sit down.”

He steps around the table to pull out the chair for Sherlock, who instantly goes fire engine red at the gesture. Just the reaction John was hoping for. They sit, and John watches as Sherlock fumbles a bit in putting his bag on the floor, his books on his side of the two-person table.

“Why are you still carrying that poor thing around?” John asks, not bothering to hide his amusement.

Sherlock shrugs, as if it somehow is not a bother to deal with this torn object—John won’t even call it bag anymore, now that it’s closer and he can see how sad it is. “I haven’t got around to replacing it.”

“Good,” John nods, relief rushing through him. “Because I got around to it for you.”

“What—” Sherlock starts to ask, but John leans down and plucks a large gift bag out from under his chair.

Sherlock’s eyes widen, and he looks at John questioningly. “What did you do, John?”

“I don’t know, Detective Sherrinford, you tell me,” John grins. Sherlock lets out a soft, surprised laugh at the nickname and ducks his head, fingers fiddling with the corner of the gift bag. Then, he reaches up and pulls out the pieces of tissue paper John had hurriedly located that morning, after at last receiving the package in the mail.

Sherlock sucks in a startled breath as he peers inside. “John…” He reaches inside and extracts the new leather shoulder-bag. It’s formed of smooth, black leather with one large compartment as well as two smaller ones on the front. Inside is another, more hidden zippered pocket. The strap is thick and sturdy but flexible, as are the sides of the bag—where the old one had split. On the front flap, John had had an ornate “S” embroidered.

“John,” Sherlock repeats, his voice soft. “This is too much, I—”

“Don’t worry,” John says. “It was on sale online, and the extra embroidery was free. Still, it has good reviews, and it’s genuine leather, so…”

Sherlock is biting down on a grin as he runs his fingers over the “S,” opens the flap, examines the give of the leather. “You still didn’t need to do this.”

“Sure I did. After all, it’s my fault your old one broke.” He nods at the bag at Sherlock’s feet. “What with you carrying my entire collected works in it and all.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Well. Thank you.” He meets John’s gaze with a slightly crooked smile on his face.

“You’re welcome,” John says. His foot nudges Sherlock’s beneath the table and smirks back. Then, he glances toward the counter. The pub he suggested they meet was not far from Sherlock’s university, apparently, which had certainly explained the sheer number of fellow twentysomethings who had been milling about when John had arrived. Luckily, that lunch crowd had mostly cleared out as of a few minutes ago, and now there is no wait to order. “Are you hungry?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Not intensely.”

“Did you have a big breakfast before class or something?”

“Well…” Sherlock shook his head. “I’ve actually only had coffee today.”

“What?” John exclaimed. “Sherlock, it’s the middle of the afternoon!”

“I know that, I just… I’ve been preparing for an exam.”

“That’s no excuse to go without eating,” John says, trying to pretend he isn’t mildly horrified. “Come on, at least have some soup or something.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Oh, fine.”

Within ten minutes, they are both seated again with their food: a sandwich and tea for John, soup and coffee for Sherlock.

“So,” John says, laughing. “Do you just not eat when school’s in?”

Sherlock’s head ducks a little, an utterly endearing expression on his face. A combination of shy and amused. “I do, only… Digestion slows me down.”

John frowns. “I’m not sure that’s how that works, but… okay. Still, you’ve got to eat sometimes, you know.”

Instead of replying with words, Sherlock slowly and deliberately lifts a full spoonful to his mouth, not taking his eyes off John. A second later, however, he starts coughing into a napkin.

“Hot,” he manages, choking slightly. John tries not to laugh, but doesn’t succeed. Finally, Sherlock recovers after guzzling down half a glass of water. He blinks rapidly to stave off the wetness in his eyes.

“You okay?” John asks, placing his foot over Sherlock’s again. He wants to take his hand, but is unsure if Sherlock would be comfortable with that. Then again, he had allowed it on their first date, so…

He reaches across the table, and to his delight Sherlock’s slender digits meet him halfway.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says. His voice is still a bit strained, and John finds himself wanting to kiss him, to see if he can snog away the hoarseness. “But see, eating is _dangerous_ , John.”

They giggle together for several moments, hands linked on the tabletop. John marvels at the way Sherlock laughs—rather quietly, looking down, as if afraid to be seen having a nice time. So John squeezes his fingers tighter, and hopes he can make that go away, given time. He’d love to see Sherlock laughing freely, without restraint.

Finally they settle down, and John tucks in properly to his food. He notices the way Sherlock takes very ginger, tentative sips of his soup from now on.

After a few minutes of companionable silence, John swallows a bite and opens his mouth to speak—to ask Sherlock about his life, his hopes and dreams and ambitions and how the hell his hair always looks so tempting and beautiful—when a voice interrupts him.

“Sherlock?”

The chemistry student whips his head around. “Molly?”

“Hey, I thought that was you!” A girl with light brown hair done up in a French braid steps over to their table, smiling at Sherlock. She carries a backpack on her shoulders, a takeaway box in her hands, and looks to be about Sherlock’s age. Clearly a fellow student.

Sherlock shoots a quick, apologetic glance at John before turning back to her. “Where were you yesterday? I had to fend off Sally by myself.”

“Sorry,” she grimaces. “I had an absolutely awful migraine. I couldn’t move from my bed all day. Did it go alright, though?”

He nods. “She was relatively tame, all things considered.”

“Good,” she says. Then, she looks at John, shifting and biting her lip, as if aware she is interrupting something. “Listen, do you think I could see your notes? I’m worried about it, with the exam so soon…”

“Oh,” Sherlock nods. “Of course. Er… here, I’ve got them with me.” He reaches for his old bag and rummages through it a moment, extracting a thin spiral-bound notebook and handing it to Molly. “You can just give it back to me in lab tomorrow. I won’t need it this evening.”

“Thanks so much,” she gushes, beaming at him. “I owe you one.”

He nods, a gentle smile on his face. John watches with interest at their camaraderie—Sherlock is clearly fond of this girl, and she of him. For John’s part, he is grateful to see that someone other than himself has seen the worth in Sherlock Holmes.

“Right, erm, anyway,” Molly says, “Sorry to burst in…”

“Oh,” Sherlock’s eyes dart between her and John. “Right. John, this is my lab partner, Molly Hooper. Molly, this is… John.” There is a brief hesitation before his name, and John wonders if Sherlock considered elaborating. He wonders what title he might have been given.

“Hi,” he shakes her hand, smiling a broader version of his for-book-signings smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” she says sweetly. “So how do you know Sherlock?”

Sherlock emits a funny noise, something between a squeak and a groan. John ignores him, though, not seeing the harm in explaining. “We met at a book signing. You know of the Sherrinford and Sacker books?”

She raises her eyebrows, a smile on her face. “You mean, Sherlock’s favourite books ever? Yeah, you could say he’s mentioned them,” she smirks at Sherlock, who’s pinching the bridge of his nose and not looking at anyone. When Molly looks back at John, though, recognition is dawning in her bright eyes. “Wait. John… do you mean to say you’re John _Watson_?”

He inclines his head. “The one and only. Well, you know, not really. There’s probably a hundred of us out there.”

She laughs merrily. “I know what you meant.” Then, her eyes flash between him and the still-hiding Sherlock. “So… are you two… on a _date_?”

“Well, it was lovely seeing you, Molly,” Sherlock blurts, his head whipping up to reveal his scarlet face and neck. “See you in lab tomorrow.”

She grins at him, sending a conspiratorial look in John’s direction. “Okay, okay, I’ll leave you alone. See you, Sherlock. Nice to meet you, John.”

“The pleasure was mine, Molly,” John waves at her as she makes to depart. He turns back to Sherlock, whose face still is decidedly ruby.

“Well, at least I have an interrogation to look forward to tomorrow,” Sherlock moans, his face hidden by his hand. John reaches out and tugs it away, pressing a quick kiss to his knuckles.

“She seems sweet, though.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock scowls.

“Hey,” John laughs. “Don’t be upset your friend cares about you. She looked so excited when she realized we’re here together.”

At the word _together_ , Sherlock turns a deeper shade of red, but he smiles. “Still, I’m glad she left when she did, otherwise my face might have spontaneously combusted,” he presses the back of his free hand to each of his cheeks in turn in a rather futile attempt to cool them.

John snickers, then turns his gaze down. “Ah, speaking of going places, I’ve got to be off in about fifteen minutes.” He lifts his eyes from his watch back to his lunch date. “Have you got any other classes today?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, not until tomorrow morning. Why?”

“Well…” John had thought earlier in the day of inviting Sherlock to this, but now—faced with the actual asking—he is unsure. Sherlock still acts reluctant, both in showing and receiving affection. Not that that is a problem; this is only their third date, so it isn’t so surprising he is still guarded. Still, how will he react? Well, best to just tear off the plaster.

“I have my group tonight,” John says. “I was wondering if you wanted to come along?”

“Your group?” Sherlock’s forehead crinkles between his brows. “What group?”

“Oh,” John blinks. “I haven’t told you about that?”

“No,” Sherlock’s cheeks return to their familiar pink state. “All I know about what you do is, well, writing books.”

“Yeah, I wish that were all I did,” John says. “But sadly, I’m no Stephen King.”

“Who?”

John laughs. “Not a fan of horror, I take it?”

“Not particularly. From what I can tell, it’s a load of melodramatic drivel, really.” Sherlock leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Why? Is he important?”

“Yeah, you could say that. If I ever meet him, I won’t mention you said all that.”

Sherlock inclines his head. “Probably for the best, at least for your relationship with other apparently important writers. Sparing their egos, on the other hand…” he grimaces, as if that is not high on his list of priorities.

“Right,” John laughs. “Anyway, leaving the King aside, I can’t afford to just live off the money I make off my novels. Most writers actually have other day jobs, believe it or not.”

“And what’s yours?”

“I have a writing group.” John smiles as Sherlock leans forward, expression openly intrigued. “See, after _The Lovely Assassin_ came out, which you probably know was kind of my big break, I was asked by a local university to come speak to the students about creative writing techniques, do a weekly seminar for part of the term.”

“At my uni?” Sherlock asks. “I don’t remember hearing anything about this.”

“No, it was at University of London, my alma mater. Besides, it would have been a couple years before you were even in uni.”

“I started my undergraduate course when I was seventeen, actually,” Sherlock says, a hint of pride in his words.

“Oh, okay fine, you’d have been, what in your first year back then?” he nudges Sherlock’s foot a third time. Sherlock nods and giggles in that soft, self-conscious way of his again and nudges back, and John wonders at how this man brings out his inner child a bit, as the best people so often do.

“Anyway, I was utterly terrified. I’d never done public speaking like that before, but I agreed. Did a series of presentations about writing mysteries, how to craft a good crime and solve it without being too obvious, that kind of thing.”

“Did it go alright?”

“If you count an audience of two hundred and an hour long Q&A after the first presentation as successful, then yeah,” John smiles, though he feels a bit awkward as always when speaking about his own successes. He’s not one to talk about himself all the time, though he finds himself having to do so more than he’d like, especially when he has book signings and such.

“So your writing group came out of that?” Sherlock asks.

“Yeah, once the seminar ended, a few of my particularly loyal… well, students, I suppose you could say, lobbied me to form this. So now, we meet every week to exchange drafts, discuss things. Usually I do a bit of a talk about some topic at first, then we all critique each other’s writings. I get paid for that too, and the uni usually has me do a seminar at least once every other term or so.”

“Do you bring in drafts for the students to look at?” Sherlock asks, a glint in his eyes. John can see the eagerness there.

“Not for my new books, but sometimes I’ll write a quick something as an example. On occasion I’ll show them an old draft, but that’s rare. You got the royal tour the other day, looking at my notebook.”

Sherlock blushes again, which instantly distracts John. That look is rapidly becoming John’s favorite expression in all the world. Sherlock’s so paradoxical—strikingly handsome, and yet somehow endearingly timid. John finds his reactions to compliments charming, but a little sad. Someone as gorgeous and interesting as Sherlock should be confident, not amazed whenever he gets a compliment or is treated with kindness.

“Sounds like you’ve a good thing, with those writers.” Sherlock murmurs, glancing up at John with a soft look.

“I have. The uni’s been great about it. Something about showing they support the arts, or something. Mutually beneficial, though. They get to show they care about more than maths and science, and I get paid for talking to other writers about hypothetical ways to commit crimes.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Not a bad way to spend your time.”

John laughs, glancing down at their entwined hands again. He finds that, quite unwittingly, he has started stroking his thumb across Sherlock’s— _supple, pearly, alluring_ —skin. “So,” he swallows. “Do you want to come with? The students won’t mind a guest.”

Sherlock hesitates, his own gaze on their hands as well, and John continues. “You don’t have to share any of your writing, you know. You could just listen.”

He wants to say more, but fears it might become a bit embarrassing. After all, this is only the third time they have seen each other in person, and admitting something like _I could spend hours with you, listening to you talk about everything or nothing_ or _I need more time with you so I can figure out exactly what shade your eyes are_ is a bit… much.

A small crease has appeared on Sherlock’s forehead, and John is struck by the urge to smooth it away, either with his thumb or his lips. He doesn’t act on either desire though, and just waits for Sherlock’s answer.

“Not… not this time, John. I’m sorry,” he finally says, not meeting his gaze. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be,” John says, swallowing back his disappointment and nodding. “But okay. Can I see you again soon, though?”

Sherlock, seeming reassured by John’s ready acceptance, appears to fight a smile, his mouth twisting in a funny little curve. “I’d like that. When are you free?”

“Well, I’ve got one last book signing coming up. Like I mentioned the other day, I’m not going on a huge tour or anything,” he explains. “I’m not _that_ famous. But I’ll be at a bookstore in Marylebone tomorrow, and I had one in Greenwich last weekend. What with this being the last book in the series, my agent and my publisher insisted I do at least a few appearances. I haven’t actually done signings in a couple years, so they were pretty adamant.”

Sherlock has raised his eyebrows. “One of your signings is in bookstore… in _Marylebone_?”

John chuckles, a little self-deprecation slipping into his voice when he speaks again. “Yeah. My idea, actually. Seems fitting, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock smirks. “It does.” Then, however, his eyes widen, as if coming to an abrupt realization. “Are… are you inviting me to your signing there?”

“Well, yeah.” John feels an absurd surge of butterflies. What, is he sixteen again? “If you want.” After a moment, he manages to muster a bit of his signature Watson charm and levels it at Sherlock in the form of a knowing smirk. “But in the meantime, I’d like to show you off at dinner tonight or tomorrow night, if you’re amenable to one of those.”

Sherlock’s cheeks must be tired from maintaining so much blood there for so long. But his own reply is laced with a hesitant confidence that gives John’s belly a whole new species of butterflies to cope with.

“I’m amenable to _both_ , actually.”

John beams.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, John strides down the corridor, toward his usual classroom. He can already hear his writing kids—he still feels odd calling them students—chattering away inside the room. After a full term and then some together, these writers have become quite close. All of them are rather serious about developing and preparing their manuscripts for possible publication, and he has delighted in watching their skills in prose, plot, and personalities develop over time.

If only Sherlock were here. John would love to watch his reactions to things, to hear perhaps what he has to say about some of the stories. Still, he understands why the chemistry student didn’t come; sharing opinions on writing, let alone sharing the writing itself, with anyone, can be nerve wracking. John himself had been terrified to hear what people had to say about his first book, until the generally positive reviews came out. Sherlock, who seems unused to sharing his feelings, clearly does not have the same level of confidence as John’s writers.

“Alright, kids,” he calls as he enters the room. “Which character is a murderer today?”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock is already waiting by the time John arrives at their determined place of meeting. He has swapped his leather bag for the newer one, and has left behind the textbooks and notes.

“Long time, no see,” John teases by way of greeting.

Sherlock giggles, pushing himself off the side of the building where he had been leaning like a damn model. “How were your writers?”

“Good, we had a lovely chat about murder,” John jokes, though that had in fact been the main subject of their meeting. Two of the small group were crafting murder mysteries, after all.

Sherlock nods, as if it is perfectly reasonable, even normal, to have intense discussions about how best to get away with homicide. “Well, I hope it didn’t ruin your appetite.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” he laughs. “Nerves of steel, or rather stomach of steel. I’ve eaten full meals while writing, you know.”

“Good, come on then.” Sherlock begins to walk, then pauses and peers at John over his shoulder. John takes the hint and falls into step with him, slipping his fingers in between Sherlock’s.

“So, where are we headed?”

“There.” Sherlock nods to a small stand about half a block away. It’s a cheerily lit place, with a short queue of customers waiting to order. “I hope it’s okay, it’s just fish and chips. But I have it on good authority that it is the absolute best in the city.”

“That’s quite a promise,” John says as they approach. “Sounds good to me. I like a classic British dinner now and again.”

Sherlock presses his lips together in a thin smile. “Good. And I’m buying. It’s a cheap date, but I’ll pay for tomorrow night too.”

“What? No, you don’t have to do that.”

“Consider it a little repayment for the bag,” Sherlock pats it.

John tilts his head, frowning. “I told you, it’s kind of my fault the old one broke. Besides, buying it was my pleasure.”

“Still. I’m paying. No arguments.”

John huffs, but shrugs. He had paid for lunch earlier; he supposes he can allow this. Besides, he finds it rather charming Sherlock is taking paying for meals so seriously; he doesn’t seem like someone who normally bothers with social niceties, and yet here he is.

They chat in the queue, John telling about his evening. Sherlock, in turn, speaks a bit about his work in the lab with Molly, though most of the more technical terms go rocketing right over John’s head.

By the time they reach the front of the queue, the deep blue evening sky has taken on a rather ominous darker tint. Then, by the time they have ordered, Sherlock has paid, and the food is placed into their hands, the sky has gone black and a deep rumble rends the air.

Sherlock meets John’s gaze, eyes a little wide. John opens his mouth to speak, and—

BOOM.

“Shit!”

They dash off, trying to cover their meals as the skies open and drop a sudden cool thunder-shower onto them. John lets out an exhilarated cry, and hears Sherlock giggling beside him.

They stagger to a halt underneath the awning of a bank that’s closed for the evening. John leans against the wall and examines the damage. His chips are just a bit soggy, but the fish seems mostly unharmed. All in all, still edible. And it all still smells delicious.

“Yours okay?” he asks, turning to Sherlock.

He nods, chest heaving from exertion. John does a terrible job hiding his interest in the way Sherlock’s sodden shirt now clings to his torso.

They end up huddled together under the awning, as the shower continues on. John moans as he takes the first bite of fish.

“God, this is incredible,” he manages to say around the food. “You weren’t joking.”

Sherlock grins but is too busy with a mouthful of chips to articulate anything. They eat their way steadily through their meals, although the job of balancing the damp paper trays in their hands while tearing off bites of fish proves to be a little tricky and unwieldy at times. Eventually, they settle for feeding each other, finding that easier, and—at least for John’s part—more romantic.

The rain is slowing by the time the evening is winding down and they have eaten their fill, but thunder still rumbles in the distance. John leans closer to Sherlock, loath to say goodbye just yet and head back out into the rain.

“It should pass soon,” Sherlock says after checking the weather app on his phone. John detects a slight tinge of disappointment in his tone, and is glad for it.

“Hey,” he murmurs. Sherlock turns to him, a somewhat worried expression on his face. However, John’s next words—“I had a lovely time with you today”—erase that look in an instant.

“As did I,” he breathes, almost soft enough to be lost in the pattering raindrops on the awning above them.

John smiles, then raises his hand to cradle Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s cheek lifts under his touch as he smiles.

Their kiss is soft and tastes of salt, tartar sauce, and rain. Though it may not be the _most_ romantic moment in the world, John realizes with a faint jolt that he cannot fathom anywhere he would rather be. He cannot remember a time he has felt this infatuated, especially after just a handful of dates. But when Sherlock had walked into that bookstore, it had felt like something special, something extraordinary. Right away, John had wanted to know him. Of course now, John mostly just wants to stand here and hold him close.

Sherlock is the one to pull away, his tongue darting out to trace over his lips. John follows the movement with his eyes, shivering—though whether it’s from the rain or the kiss, he isn’t sure.

“I suppose I’d better go,” Sherlock frowns. He glances out at the street, where the rain has slowed to barely a sprinkle. “My lab is early tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.” John removes his hand from the back of Sherlock’s neck, though not before one last kiss to his cheek. “I’ll text you the time and address for the signing, yeah?”

Sherlock’s lip quirks up. “Okay.” He presses his lips to John’s once more, then steps away.

John watches him go, not caring at all his countenance is probably the very picture of “stupidly smitten.” However, Sherlock only gets halfway across the deserted street, heading for the nearest Tube station, before he executes a perfect one-eighty spin.

“I should probably mention,” he calls to John, “I think I got ketchup on your cheek during that kiss.”

John automatically raises his hand to his face, where indeed there is a small smear of sauce. He laughs, and Sherlock joins in, even as he shoves his hands in his pockets, twirls back around, and continues on.

Bloody hell, John can’t wait for the signing tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Yet again, here I come with a bunch of info you don't necessarily need but I'm going to provide anyway:  
> 1\. Thank you so much, [Badkatpat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badkatpat/pseuds/Badkatpat), for the title _The Lovely Assassin_! It’s a compelling and intriguing name, and gave me an idea for its plot right away :)  
>  2\. If anyone has ideas for John’s other two standalone novels, let me know! One is a paranormal/ghost mystery, and the other is a historical-mystery-adventure-pirate story, but they still need possibly canon-referencing titles (thanks to [seanaface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seanaface/pseuds/seanaface) and [ReynardinePotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReynardinePotter/pseuds/ReynardinePotter) respectively for those awesome ideas!)  
> 3\. To be perfectly honest, I’m not delighted with this story’s title. It’s a labored, painful pun on “gunpowder, treason, and plot” a phrase that comes from Guy Fawkes’ plot to blow up Parliament. I tried to keep the syllables the same, but obviously there are no explosions here. At least I can argue it’s kinda a reference to that scene in Empty Hearse...? And the word “plot” references creative writing…? Idk. It’s weak. Oh well.  
> 4\. Re John describing Sherlock as “Adonis strolled in from a fashion shoot in Pemberley”: Adonis is Aphrodite’s gorgeous lover in a tale in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (and a Shakespeare poem). Pemberley is, of course, Darcy’s beautiful estate in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. My former British lit profs would be proud of me for making this multi-reference, I think. (Dunno what they’d think of me doing so in a gay alternate universe fanfiction based on a television show based on Victorian short stories, but I like to think that, of all of them, Billy Shakes would approve.)  
> 5\. Sherlock’s lack of knowledge of Stephen King comes from how in A Study in Scarlet, Watson mentions that Holmes’ knowledge of literature is “nil.” Obviously that isn’t true in this AU, but I’ve a feeling this Sherlock reads mystery novels and no other genres.  
> 6\. According to John Watson’s Wikipedia biography, he received his medical degree from University of London. Conveniently for me, they also offer English degrees. Bringing in a published author in to teach a creative writing seminar/weekly discussions is my idea, though. I’ve no clue if this is a done thing anywhere, so please excuse my liberties-taking.  
> 7\. Hey, any British readers, question. What do you call “ketchup”? Catsup? Red sauce? Some other word? The spelling and pronunciation of “ketchup” just seems so American to me, but I didn’t know what else to write.


End file.
